


Love and Marriage . . . and All the Other Stuff

by beetle



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Backstory, Banter, Baze Has Many Guns, Baze is the True Romantic, Blenders, Blow Jobs, Bodhi Also has a Boyfriend, Bodhi Has Two Dads, Bodhi's Two Worlds Collide, Chirrut's Shady Past, Failboats In Love, Forbidden Love, Galen Should Tread Carefully, Gay dads, Hand & Finger Kink, Humor, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Married Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Mentions of kink, Minor Cassian Andor/Jyn Erso, New love, Old Married Couple, POV Baze Malbus, Sneaking Around, So Married, True Love, Walking In On Someone, meet cute, spiritassassin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: “I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.”--Rita RudnerBaze Malbus and Chirrut Îmwe navigate married life, family, and kitchen appliances one busy Saturday. Not limited to arguing over wedding gifts, gross candy, Funko figures, walking in on their son and hisvery unexpectedboyfriend in a . . . compromising position and, finally, chasing the ever-elusive peaceful afterglow, after such a full and eventful day.





	Love and Marriage . . . and All the Other Stuff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern Human AU. Marriage, family, banter, porn, fluff, and light angst.

 

 

Love and marriage, love and marriage,

Go together like a horse and carriage.

This, I tell ya, brother, you can't have one without the other.

Love and marriage, love and marriage,

It's an institute you can't disparage.

Ask the local gentry and they will say it's elementary.

Try, try, try to separate them, it's an illusion.

Try, try, try, and you only come to this conclusion:

Love and marriage, love and marriage,

Go together like a horse and carriage. . . .

**\--Frank Sinatra**

 

**Morning: Coitus Interruptus and Coitus Completus**

 

“Hmmm . . . fuck, baby, that’s _so nice_. . . .”

 

Smirking, even around a hard, and enviably gorgeous mouthful, Baze teased with his tongue, tracing and tasting, licking and loving his way around the familiar territory of Chirrut’s dick. He let himself sink into all the familiar, sweetly dirty, arousing sensations: the salty-sweet taste of Chirrut’s smooth skin and the salty- _bitter_ taste of the precome welling out of him nonstop. The soft, wanton grunts and groans that escaped that long, elegant throat and those perfect, supple lips. The holy-mysterious _scent_ of him, like incense and musk—especially _here_ , in this most secret-sacred place on Chirrut’s beloved and graceful body—and concentrated desire. The stuttered lift-thrust of his narrow hips and the glide of his dick across Baze’s worshipful and reverent tongue, toward his practiced and willing throat. . . .

 

This was a _damned-fine_ Saturday morning, and it’d barely even started.

 

“Your mouth is _so good—you’re_ so good to me. . . .”

 

Baze rewarded such earnest praise with a gentle hum that really made Chirrut arch up off the bed, his dick sliding deeper into Baze’s mouth—past the distant memory of his gag-reflex—and bumping the very top of his throat.

 

A _very_ fine morning.

 

“You’d _better_ not swallow it _all_ , Baze. Better save some for me.”

 

Baze was the one to grunt, now. That grunt said many things, all of which, at this late date, Chirrut was a pastmaster at translating:

 

 _I’ll be saving a_ lot _more for you than a mouthful of your own jizz, Trouble-maker. I mean_ business _, this morning. And I’m gonna mean it for a lot_ longer _than a single blowjob and some snowballing._

 

Chirrut’s chuckling reply was throaty and breathless. “Hmmm . . . that _yummy_ feeling when . . . my service-top husband gets randomly Dom-y and assertive out of the blue . . . one fine Saturday morning.”

 

Baze snorted, but didn’t let Chirrut’s smart-mouthed nattering distract him from one of his favorite hobbies: reducing said smart-mouthed natter to nonverbal begging.

 

Who needed to Dominate when he could have so much more fun making Chirrut . . . lives-fully-either-in-his- _superego-_ or-his- _id_ _Chirrut_ —unlike Baze who’s almost always in the practical middle-ground of ego, with little straying to either of the extremes Chirrut so skillfully, _joyfully_ balanced and navigated—forget all his bossy, power-bottom tendencies and weird, priest-y zen, and just abandon himself to his body and its needs. Its _demands_. The ones that _only_ Baze had ever filled in _any_ sense of that word.

 

“God, yeah, Baze, _baby_. . . .” Chirrut was chanting steadily, probably clenching his square, strong hands in the sheets in a bid for control that Baze wasn’t about to let him get. Chirrut was babbling almost nonsensically at this point and beyond that, there was only one point left before the fireworks-show that was Chirrut coming, and the cuddly-pliant afterglow.

 

Baze was a man who believed in always having a goal in his sights. To that end, he hummed a bit more, swirling his tongue pointedly along the circumference of Chirrut’s dick. Then he took a moment of temporizing to decide which kind of blowjob this morning called for: the patented Malbus- _slowjob_ or the patented Malbus- _deepthroat._ Or, perhaps, some combination and alternating of the two. . . ?

 

It was during this brief caesura in this particular bit of intimate prosody, that Chirrut somehow managed to swing—with breathtaking ease and against all odds—all the way out of his deeply sensual and sexual and _focused_ id, into his chatty, five-million-tabs-open-at-once superego.

 

Because, _of course_.

 

“ . . . that blender I was telling you about last week, baby? The one with the—oh, fuck, gimme that _throat_ —programmable timer and settings? I think— _unh, yes_ —we should get it for _Jyn and Cass_ as a wedding gift!”

 

Baze, who was admittedly busy at the moment—on his aching, not-pleased knees, but nonetheless settling in to give Chirrut that slowjob—glanced up from where he knelt at the foot of the bed, between his husband’s wiry legs, along the length of his husband’s compact body and toward his husband’s dreamy, distracted face.

 

Sighing, Baze wished he could attribute that dreaminess to his own phenomenal blowjob skills—and they were _phenomenal,_ beyond all doubt—but after thirty-two years of serial, domestic, and eventually married bliss, he knew all too well that Chirrut was off in his own, non-blowjob-related Happy Place.

 

And that place probably featured a space-age blender that cost the same as a mid-range golf-cart. Really, how could even _Baze’s_ insane blowjob skills compete with that?

 

“ _Heeeeey_ ,” Chirrut complained as Baze’s mouth slid down and off his undeterred hard-on—Baze was seriously a bit miffed, and yeah, maybe jealous of Chirrut’s imaginary, super-duper blender—and he levered himself up on one sharp elbow, pouting a bit in Baze’s direction. For a blind guy, it was eerie how he never failed to give the impression of gazing right at one, and sometimes soul-deep.

 

It was one of the many things Baze had fallen in love with practically the night they met. Or _had_ fallen for once he and the weird, wise-cracking blind kid had finally managed to lose the _very persistent_ members of the Hong Kong mafia who’d been chasing them—they’d initially been just after said blind kid for reasons Baze _still_ wasn’t sure about—and get out of the city. Then out of the country.

 

By the time they’d stopped running and looking over their shoulders, they’d been together for nearly seven years. Getting married and all the other stuff had made sense, at the time.

 

Looking back, now, in these exasperated moments, Baze could only accept that he’d walked into this life—this _family_ —with his eyes wide open, despite the romantic, rose-colored glasses he’d been wearing. Was _still_ , even now, wearing almost constantly.

 

“You stopped.” Aaaaaaand _Chirrut_ was still pouting, his arctic-blue eyes as warm and mesmerizing as ever, despite the icy color of them. Baze sighed again, then snorted.

 

“Yeah. Because you seemed to need some alone-time with the blender of your dreams. I didn’t wanna intrude.”

 

Chirrut blinked and smiled his most innocent smile, and it included embedding his teeth lightly in his lower lip, which he somehow knew—of _course_ , he did—that Baze was damn-near helpless to resist.

 

“You weren’t intruding, sweetheart. Unlike most people, I can divide my attention equitably between the love of my life _and_ the guy getting up close and personal with my junk.”

 

“Uh-huh. I always wanted a spouse with wit and a sense of humor. Maybe once I divorce you, I’ll actually find that guy someday. . . .” Baze mused wistfully, only for Chirrut to chuckle and drape his right leg over Baze’s brawny left shoulder.

 

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive, Baze,” Chirrut said, still chuckling as he used his leg-leverage to pull his husband closer. Wiry and small though he was, Chirrut was almost dismayingly strong. Like a mutant ant. Baze let himself be pulled close again and grumbled without bite, laying his head against Chirrut’s warm inner thigh. One square, clever hand settled gently in Baze’s sleep-messy, silvering hair. Baze’d been silvering since he was twenty-four—he’d literally noticed the first strand of silver the night he’d met Chirrut. Many more had followed as the smart-ass, trouble-prone blind kid’d somehow managed to inextricably twine their lives around each other.

 

Baze’d married Chirrut seven years later, and the silvering-process had accelerated exponentially.

 

Then they’d adopted their son two years after that, and to say that their angelically cute, bright, big-eyed brat had somehow inherited his Dad’s tendency to cause and get into trouble, both effortlessly and almost randomly, was the understatement of _all_ the centuries.

 

And in both husband and son, those tendencies had only grown, and become more refined and unbelievable with time. At least ninety-eight percent of Baze’s premature silver was because of said husband and son. The last two percent was probably just the vagaries of genetics.

 

Which was pretty unfair, or would have been, had Baze really given two shits about his appearance. After all, Chirrut had _maybe_ six gray hairs. (Bodhi, weirdly enough, had been sprouting silver at sixteen and it’d always been fairly noticeable in his ink-black hair . . . and still was, at the ripe old age of twenty-four.) Chirrut also looked at least fifteen years younger than his actual age.

 

Baze’d looked like a grumpy, middle-aged bruiser since he was six.

 

 _It really is unfair_ , he had to acknowledge and did, as Chirrut stroked his hair fondly, like Baze was a large, grouchy hound. _Good thing I’m married to a blind guy, I guess_.

 

With another sigh, this one contented and amused, Baze kissed the soft skin of Chirrut’s inner thigh, letting his lips linger over jumping, excited muscles.

 

“Seriously, though, you didn’t have to stop, baby.”

 

“I was sucking your dick and you were fantasizing about a blender. A blender. So, yeah, I think I had to stop.”

 

“You’d prefer it if I fantasized about—oh, what’s-his-face—uhhhhh . . . the hot one?”

 

“Idris Elba?”

 

“No, no—the _other_ hot one!”

 

“Uh . . . Jason Statham. . . ?”

 

“Paul Giamatti!”

 

Baze looked up at his husband, gaping and shaking his head. Chirrut blinked and his fingers continued to scritch and card through Baze’s hair.

 

“I . . . I just don’t have the words,” Baze admitted and Chirrut blinked again, seeming truly dumbfounded, for once.

 

“Baby, just because he’s at the top of my Hall-Pass list, doesn’t mean you have to get _jealous_ . . . even though I kinda _like_ you all possessive and butch and _grrr_ over me.”

 

“You’ve caught me out,” Baze said, with discreet, but high levels of _whatever_. It was one of many necessary zen-master talents he’d discovered that’d kept his marriage viable. “Yup, you sure have, I’m . . . very jealous of Paul Giamatti. Mmhm. Sure am.”

 

“My poor sweetie,” Chirrut cooed, his hand in Baze’s hair slowing into a tender caress. “You _never_ have to be jealous of anyone. Not _even_ Paul Giamatti.”

 

“What about that damned blender?”

 

 Telling pause, then: “Okay, if you make me have to sing _Let it Go_ to you one more time—”

 

“Please don’t.”

 

“—over a really nice, but not nearly as nice as _you_ blender—”

 

“It’s sweet that you’re sparing my feelings, but I can accept that you wanna run away and live in sin with the goddamn blender, Chirrut.”

 

“Eh. I’ll take _you_ over a blender, any day. You’re all muscle-y and buff and you give _perfect_ hugs.” Chirrut was the one to sigh, now, and hum as Baze nuzzled his still undeterred hard-on. “Plus, you smell good, you describe movies better than _anyone_ , and I trust _you_ more with my junk than a blender with five hundred blades and six thousand cutting speeds.”

 

“Aaaaaaand the truth comes out at last,” Baze huffed, running his tongue along a prominent vein, and down to Chirrut’s balls, which he nipped at, just this side of playfully. That was good for a long, low, hungry moan. “If blenders could give safe blowjobs, I’d be kicked to the curb in a heartbeat.”

 

Chirrut hummed, but didn’t leap to deny it. Baze rolled his eyes and kissed his way back up to the tip of Chirrut’s dick.

 

“You’re still thinking about the blender. _Stop it_. Right now.”

 

“I’m _not_ —okay, how’d you know?”

 

“Because I know _you_. Stop mentally cheating on me with a blowjob-giving kitchen appliance.”

 

“It’s not cheating, it’s . . . multitasking!” Chirrut claimed loftily, then didn’t claim anything for the next several minutes. But when Baze, paying his usual obsessive attention to Chirrut’s dick—still working the tip, which was really only the _start_ , and Chirrut knew that . . . after thirty-two years of knowing _Baze_ , he _knew that_ —slid the hand not fondling Chirrut’s balls and alternately fingering his perineum, up Chirrut’s thigh, that hand was clasped in both of Chirrut’s callused, gentle ones.

 

As Baze traced the tip and slit with his tongue, worshiping both and reveling in the taste he loved most, even after all this time, Chirrut heaved a deep sigh. It sounded utterly content, and like it came from the very center of his being.

 

“I love your hands, Baze,” he said softly, with the sort of shy, grave sincerity that still occasionally threw Baze for a loop and always would. Still threw his _heart_ into an ecstatic tizzy . . . and _always_ would. “Your mouth, your tongue, your laugh, your scent, your muscles, your arms around me, _all_ that good stuff . . . but _especially_ your _hands_ . . . your hands are love.”

 

Baze swallowed around his heart, or tried. But it was no doing. Even after all these years, no one could get Baze Malbus’s heart lodged behind his larynx like Chirrut Îmwe.

 

And Baze was all kinds of copacetic with that.

 

Soon, the hand in his hair was not so gentle, anymore. It was twining and tight, clutching and clenching. Demanding and bossy. Baze nevertheless kept his slowjob steady and consistent and unhurried.

 

“I love you, baby, but you’re _killing_ me,” Chirrut whined and panted and gulped. Baze smiled smugly around him, though slightly distracted, himself, with the way Chirrut was tracing, teasing, and stroking the lines and calluses of his hand. Chirrut gave actual, _literal_ handjobs—he called it something-or-other pressure-points, blah-blah—that had more than once been enough to get Baze off fast and intense, when he was wound tight and desperate to come.

 

It'd been at least a year since last time, which meant another handjob was _well_ overdue. Baze hummed happily as he anticipated his husband’s beautiful, tender, Braille-reading, deft, clever, _devastating_ fingertips dancing across his own fingers. And his knuckles. And his wrists. And his _palms_. . . .

 

“Oh, _fuuuuuck_ ,” Chirrut exhaled as Baze instinctively doubled-down on his ministrations at the thought of those perfect fingers tracing his lifeline. His _heartline_. “ _You’d_ better not be thinking about that damn blender, either, Baze Malbus. Or fucking _golf_.”

 

Chuckling, Baze’s only reply was to hum a bit harder, with some extra rumble to it. Chirrut made a startled croak, like an emu that’d gotten kicked in the ass _and_ balls simultaneously, and began to twitch and shake.

 

 _Take_ that, _Hall-Pass losers,_ Baze thought with vicious satisfaction, teasing Chirrut’s perineum with his finger even as he forwent the patented Malbus- _slowjob_ , for the patented Malbus- _deepthroat_. It wasn’t long before Chirrut was semi-nonverbal. He was just stuttering out Baze’s name and weird, almost word-like chuffs. Those arctic-blue eyes that had seen nothing for forty years other than Baze’s heart and soul, were probably wide and wet and luminous, leaking tears down Chirrut’s boyish face and into the duvet. Baze smiled again as he buried his face in Chirrut’s pubic hair, closed his eyes, and swallowed greedily and repeatedly. _Malbus: 1 . . . stupid, dumb-shit, space-age blender and Paul-fucking-Giamatti: nada._

 

 

**Afternoon: The Best-Laid Plans Gang Aft A-Gley**

 

“. . . can’t believe how much not-fun you are, Baze Malbus.”

 

Rolling his eyes as he opened the passenger side door of their Tesla on his husband’s continued bitching and complaining, Baze held out his hand. Chirrut accepted it with eerie prescience and accuracy for a blind man, regally letting Baze assist him. (Despite being as graceful as six persnickety gazelles, and needing _no one’s_ assistance—though, like a delicate, southern belle, he certainly _enjoyed_ depending upon the kindness of strangers _and_ familiars—he not-so-secretly loved it when Baze was a gentleman.)

 

For once, after a Saturday mall-run, they had no armfuls of packages, just a limited-edition, Funko Marvel figurine for Bodhi (Hawkeye . . . Baze, however, preferred the Hulk, and Chirrut, of course, preferred DC figurines, just to be contrary) which he had mentioned wanting and which they’d been unable to get a hold of for nearly two months. And, unfortunately, a _large_ bag of the weird, Korean candy Chirrut _always_ got, which tasted like a combo of watermelon, ginger, and prawn. As always, Chirrut was holding onto that bag as if Baze had _ever_ expressed an interest in stealing the gross, odd candy.

 

“We could’ve spent the day sight-seeing . . . or _you_ could have, and then described all the fun stuff to me, but no. We hadda rush home,” Chirrut added, pouting and making puppy-eyes that drew from Baze little more than a snort and a grunt.

 

Locking the car and setting the alarm with his keyfob, he took Chirrut’s hand and lead him to the door out of the garage and into the kitchen. Once inside, he locked the door and tossed Bodhi’s Funko doll at the center island, slam-dunking it in the half-empty apple bowl. Chirrut made petulant noises all the while, then waited for Baze to wander toward the fridge before stashing his terrible candy . . . wherever he hid it so his husband and son couldn’t get at it.

 

In this, at least, their son took after Baze: he, too, did not care for watermelon/ginger/prawn-flavored sweets. Chirrut, however, seemed to think Baze’s and Bodhi’s apparently horrible taste in candy was some sort of long-con to eventually get _all_ the so-called “candy” for themselves.

 

“Remind me why I rescued you from the mob, all those years ago?” Baze asked after a few refreshing gulps of peach iced tea straight from the mostly-full container.

 

“Because you were and are a hero? A knight in shining armor? A _ronin_ looking for a cause? And it was also love at first sight, for you, meeting me—not to mention getting a look at my fantastic ass. _Far_ too fantastic to wind up in a shallow grave. Don’t drink from the container,” he chastised after a brief pause. Baze sighed and put the noticeably emptied gallon jug back in the fridge then turned to his husband. Chirrut was leaning against the counter in front of the sink, arms crossed, and smirking.

 

“How do you even know? Seriously? And why do you even _care_? You _hate_ peach iced tea.”

 

“It’s the principle of the thing, butch. No one wants to drink your germs and backwash.”

 

“I repeat: You _don’t_ like peach iced tea. And _Bodhi_ only drinks Mountain Dew and Red Bull. He also hasn’t lived at home for the past four years. _I’m_ the only one drinking my germs and backwash.” Baze did some leaning of his own, against the edge of the fridge, careful not to displace any menus, photos, reminders, and Bodhi’s old drawings of _anything_ that flew. “And they’re delicious, by the way.”

 

“I’m sure they are.” Chirrut was the one to snort this time. Then that pout and the puppy-eyes were back. “And anyway, I’m still mad that you dragged us home after only two stores didn’t have the blender.”

 

“Ugh.” Baze pinched the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that, I didn’t feel like dragging my tired, old ass around the fucking mall for hours on a wild goose-chase for a blender we could probably get for cheaper on Amazon. _With_ free, two-day shipping, no less.”

 

“Amazon is the devil,” Chirrut scoffed. “And anyway, I’ve _felt_ your ass, Mr. Malbus, and rumors of its tiredness and oldness are being _greatly_ exaggerated as a way to distract from the fact that _you_ are a Fun-Slayer.”

 

“Says the man who forced his poor, overworked husband to get out of bed on a Saturday, _before_ noon, in the middle of a perfectly respectable afterglow, to buy a damn _blender_!”

 

Chirrut’s brows shot up. “ _Afterglow_? Baby, _afterglow_ implies you _weren’t_ about to be snoring like a yeti, collapsed on top of me, and impossible to shift until your stomach or your bladder woke you up two hours later.”

 

“We each enjoy the afterglow in our own unique ways,” Baze said with battered dignity. Chirrut snorted again.

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“And speaking of my stomach, we still haven’t had breakfast, because _someone_ wanted to get to the stores before all the blenders were gone.” Right on cue, Baze’s stomach growled and he patted it reassuringly, before turning to the fridge and opening it. The pickings were slim. They probably should’ve gone grocery shopping before coming home. “Next order of the afternoon is breakfast. Or, lunch, I guess. . . .”

 

“Brunch, dear. It’s called brunch.” Chirrut sounded fond and amused. And like he was closer.

 

“Eh. Maybe on _Sex and the City_ , little lady,” Baze grumbled, and was reaching for the eggs and the last of the bacon, when Chirrut’s arms slid around his waist and his wiry, warm body pressed all along Baze’s half-bent back in a waft of incense and musk . . . and that damned fruity-spicy-fishy candy. It was one of the grossest, most disturbing scents ever, that candy . . . and yet it was hands-down one of Baze’s favorites. It was _Chirrut_ , and _anything_ Chirrut was Baze’s favorite.

 

“Hey, there,” Chirrut murmured in _that voice_ , and Baze shivered and smiled a little, putting away his silly musings on the weird things—and scents—that could come to mean nothing less than all the love in the world, if one wasn’t careful. And neither Baze nor Chirrut were known for being careful when it came to their riotous—occasionally calamitous—romance.

 

“Hey, yourself.”

 

Reverent, but teasing kisses made a trail down Baze’s nape and neck, then Chirrut was gently, carefully working off the rubber band keeping Baze’s hair off his neck. Then he was nuzzling his face into Baze’s hair with a happy, possessive little huff. “I love it when your hair smells like my shampoo.”

 

“I’ve been using the same brand you use since just after we got together, Trouble-maker. I think it’s safe to call it _our_ shampoo, now.”

 

Chirrut chuckled and ruffled Baze’s thick, semi-tangled hair, then laid his head on Baze’s shoulder. “Eh, you know me. I don’t like to rush into anything.”

 

Baze huffed a laugh. “Chirrut, you rush your way into _everything_.”

 

“Not _everything_. . . .”

 

“When we met—when you literally slammed into me while running around a corner, and nearly knocked me on my ass—you said: _Hi, there, sailor! I’m Chirrut! And you’re_ muscle _-y!_ And then you stuck your tongue down my throat!”

 

“It was a diversion! I figured the mob goons wouldn’t pay two dudes making out any mind, when they were chasing just _one_ dude supposedly running for his life!”

 

“If you say so.” Then Baze was laughing as Chirrut pinched his ass playfully, but just a bit mean, too.

 

“Bottom line _is_ , Mr. Malbus, after depriving me of the mall, you _owe_ me some entertainment. Or at least some . . . satisfaction,” Chirrut murmured, low and sexy, and with a shimmy-grind against Baze’s hip that illustrated just what kind of satisfaction was expected.

 

Smirking, Baze straightened up and closed the fridge, eggs and bacon forgotten, and turned to face his husband, pulling the smaller man into his arms for an affectionate and brief kiss. Chirrut practically purred, like a happy cat, and leaned into Baze.

 

“ _Someone’s_ frisky, today.”

 

“I’m _always_ frisky, butch. Lucky for you.”

 

Baze rested his chin on top of Chirrut’s head, inhaling the clean scent of _their_ shampoo, and the incense/musk that was just Chirrut. “Yes, lucky for me. _Very_ lucky.”

 

Chirrut chuckled again, soft and somehow solemn. “I love you, Baze Malbus. Never as much as in this moment. And a moment from now, I’ll love you even _more_ , somehow.”

 

Baze sighed, letting familiar, perfect warmth fill his entire being. “You sap,” he said, and Chirrut huffed out another small laugh.

 

“Only because I know that of the two of us, _you’re_ the _true_ romantic. One whose wheels need a little greasing to get him in the mood. I descend into schmaltz and sentiment to keep you _happy_ , sweetheart,” he claimed. Baze grumbled, but didn’t gainsay any of it.

 

“You talk too much, Trouble-maker,” he observed, and Chirrut leaned back to “look” up at him.

 

“Then why don’tcha shut me up?”

 

A few moments later, laughing and holding hands—with a brief grab at the center island made by Baze for Bodhi’s Funko Hakweye—they were hurrying out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

 

Chirrut stopped them at the top of the staircase to push Baze against the wall, and grind against him while stealing deep, aggressive kisses. For his part, Baze held onto Chirrut’s ass—which really was _ridiculously_ perfect . . . just _mind-boggling_ even after thirty-two years—with his free hand and encouraged his husband to do all the taking he wanted.

 

“I love your dick. Obsessively,” Chirrut panted, snaking a hand between them to stroke Baze harder. Nimble fingers undid the fly of Baze’s loose chinos and slipped inside, navigating boxers with hungry efficiency.

 

“ _Obsessively_ , huh? Fancy word, for a man in such an all-fired rush to get bent over the foot of our bed, again.”

 

“You’re _not_ gonna be _fucking_ me, this time. _I’m_ gonna _ride_ you.”

 

Smirking after their next kiss devolved into them sharing panted breaths, Baze squeezed Chirrut closer. “Is that so?”

 

“Yuppers, sweetheart.” Chirrut was both wanton and cheerful. “Gonna get you so hard it hurts, put a cock-ring on you, then fuck myself on your dick for at least an hour.”

 

Baze didn’t even try to repress the shiver of exhilaration. He loved when Chirrut was in the mood for edging and orgasm denial, and Chirrut was _always_ up to edge Baze and reduce him to little more than the intense desire and desperation to come. These correlating kinks were just a few of many ways in which their marriage was one of complementary opposites and beautifully diametric matching. “Gotta admit, I like where this is going. . . .”

 

Chirrut’s kisses turned into nips that went to Baze’s ear lobe, where they lingered for a spell. “Hmm, I’ll bet. And after I’ve come a couple times—if I’m feeling magnanimous and you follow instructions like a _good_ boy, that is—maybe I’ll let _you_ come, too.”

 

Baze swore, quiet, but urgent, and gripped Chirrut’s ass tighter. “Do I get a choice of _where_?”

 

“. . . we’ll see.”

 

Then, with a final nibble, Chirrut leaned back, and they grinned at each other and said _all_ the things, without saying a single word. After a minute, they met for a slow, promising kiss that ended with soft, yearning moans and whispered endearments of love, lust, and encouragement.

 

Most of it was in the form of profanity, and most of it was coming from Chirrut, who got mouthy when he was turned on and always had. And soon, he was once more dragging Baze down the hall, past the guest bedroom and the bathroom, while still stealing heated, hungry kisses and tugging on Baze’s dick as if he was seriously considering pulling it off entirely.

 

Baze, however, had no complaints.

 

But as they passed Bodhi’s room, he stopped them and broke the current kiss. “Lemme dump this on Bodhi’s bed. Next time he comes to visit, maybe we won’t have to worry about forgetting to give it to him.”

 

Chirrut laughed. “Ah, yes. We must never forget the Sigur Ros CD Incident. Bought it for him for his birthday last year . . . didn’t actually _remember_ to give it to him till three days after Christmas. Dads of the Year, the two of us.”

 

“To be fair, it’s not like we see him every day anymore. Not since he was twenty, so. . . .”

 

“Regardless!” Chirrut declared sternly. “He’s our _baby_ , no matter how old and ironic and too-cool-for-school he gets. And he deserves _all_ his birthday presents on his _birthday_ , not eight months after the fact! Someday, he’s probably gonna write a tell-all book about how neglectful we were as parents! Well . . . how neglectful _you_ were. Too cheap even to FedEx our only son a CD.”

 

Baze rolled his eyes. “He literally lives half an hour away. It takes twenty minutes to get to the FedEx store. But you’re right. I’m the worst. The _absolute_ worst. I don’t know how I’ll ever make it up to him, but I won’t ever stop trying,” he said with sardonic blandness, then smirked again when Chirrut sniffed.

 

 _Then_ he was pushing off the door and turning toward it, the hand holding the bag with the toy reaching for the knob. As he twisted it easily to the right and pushed the door open, he heard a soft, sibilant, sexual: “ _Fuuuuuuuck_ ,” in a voice he just . . . really needed to have _never_ heard.

 

But by the time his brain computed what was going on in Bodhi’s room, the door was already all the way open on a _traumatizing_ scene. One that involved _Baze and Chirrut’s only child, naked,_ and having naked sex in the bedroom he _grew up in_ , with some naked, damned _boy_ . . . who happened to be _naked_!

 

Well, some _man_. . . .

 

No . . . not _some man._ A very _familiar_ man. One whom Baze and Chirrut had known since said man’s daughter and their son had become best friends in second grade.

 

As Baze gaped in shock and dismay—and something too overwhelmed and eclipsed by the former two emotions to be rage . . . yet—Bodhi, straddling and bouncing steadily on the lap of none other than _Galen-goddamned-Erso_ , began moaning and swearing and murmuring pure filth of the sort Baze _didn’t_ need to know his son knew, let alone was conversant enough with to utter during sex.

 

Galen, meanwhile, was grasping Bodhi’s hips tight and bucking his hips up in hard, sharp thrusts, while panting, sweating, and gazing up at Bodhi with wide, unblinking eyes, like he was an incubus.

 

For six hundred eternities, Baze was too frozen by his own numb horror to do anything but stand there and gape. Then Galen hissed and closed his eyes, gritting out a shaky, choked: “Ah, _Bodhi_ . . . _oh_ , my _love_. . . .”

 

Then, in the next moment, several things happened: Chirrut gasped. Galen, with one more _hard_ buck-thrust came silently . . . _in their son_. Said son whimpered and swore and began undulating his hips, and hissing satisfied _yes_ es.

 

And Baze saw absolute _red_.

 

“Yeah,” Bodhi sighed happily, rocking and shimmying and shaking, bracing himself on Galen’s chest with hands and arms that quaked. He bit his lip and groaned with obscene relish. “Give it to me, baby. _Every last drop_. Just like that, Galen . . . just . . . like—oh, _jeeeeeez. . ._!”

 

“Bodhi! _Galen_!” Chirrut exclaimed over Bodhi’s high, breathless cries, clearly torn between at least fifty different shades of disbelief and shock. Galen and Bodhi—the former just coming down from his orgasm as the latter was just reaching start of his—looked toward the door. Galen with wide, startled, and guilty eyes, and Bodhi, clearly caught up in the throes of his release, with a pouty, dumbfounded, and displeased expression.

 

“Oh, _crap_ ,” he moaned, then gasped and threw back his head, arching his back helplessly as he came with hard, deep shudders.

 

It was like being at the scene of a horrific, six-car pile-up. All Baze wanted to do was look away, but he couldn’t even shift his mercilessly seared eyes, let alone his frozen-shocked limbs.

 

A moment later, thankfully, Chirrut—who’d reached past Baze with that unerringly accurate knowledge of where _everything_ in his physical space was—had yanked the door to Bodhi’s room shut.

 

Then he herded a still gaping, still red-visioned Baze toward the stairs. Neither of them noticed when the Funko bag dropped from Baze’s fingers at the second step from the top.

 

It was down only to Chirrut’s grace and blind guy-magic, that Baze didn’t fall down the rest of those steps and break his neck in the distraction of his absolute shock and growing fury. As it was, he could barely feel his own legs, or his wilting dick hanging out of his chinos.

 

All he felt, as Chirrut ushered him back through the kitchen and to the garage, was the warmth of Chirrut’s strong, guiding hands and the literal, lava-hot throbbing of his eyeballs.

 

And rage. Lots of rage.

 

**Evening: Showdown**

 

“You ready?”

 

Baze sat behind the wheel of the Tesla, gripping that wheel tight enough to throttle it, had it been a living thing. Directly ahead of him were the neatly organized shelves of their garage.

 

“Because . . . I can hear you grinding your teeth, and . . . I kinda think you aren’t ready.”

 

Eyes narrowing—he was still seeing red . . . crystalline, clear, and _red_ —he bore down on his gritted teeth and forced himself to stop grinding them. It worked for all of ten seconds.

 

Next to him, in the passenger seat, Chirrut sighed. They’d been sitting in the garage for almost fifteen minutes since getting back from the firing range. Despite hating the range, and the scents of gunpowder and the way his sensitive hearing was jarred by all the gunfire, Chirrut had been unusually generous about Baze spending hours slaughtering targets with various semi-automatic pistols and long-range rifles.

 

And he hadn’t badgered his husband once about leaving, as he normally would have. Instead, he’d let Baze express his feelings in the way that best suited them, until Lou shut down the range for the night with a worried look and an awkward pat on the shoulder for Baze. And a quick, murmured discussion with Chirrut.

 

Finally, after a brief stop at a _Jimmy Johns_ for sandwiches and soda that Baze hadn’t tasted, Chirrut had decided it was time for them to come back home.

 

Baze hadn’t even argued against it. He’d merely sighed, suddenly very tired and lost, and let his husband somehow shepherd him to their parking spot—Baze didn’t even wonder, as he usually did, how Chirrut managed to do that—and had then driven them home.

 

Now, Chirrut’s hand on his knee squeezed even more firmly in gentle support. It had been there, steadying and calming, all during the thirteen-minute drive from the small strip mall that was closer to the firing range than the _big_ mall was.

 

“Seriously, baby . . . do I need to hide your guns?” he asked, only half-joking. Baze snorted grimly.

 

“You can hide the ones you know about, yes. If that makes you feel better.”

 

Another sigh. “Baby—”

 

“Not that I need a gun or _ever_ have, when it comes to making problems disappear.”

 

“Baze, honey . . . I don’t think this . . . _problem_ is gonna disappear if you kill and dispose of our son’s lover.”

 

Shuddering, Baze tensed up. The leather padding on the steering wheel began to creak. “Won’t know till we try, though.”

 

“I know you’re upset, sweetheart, but—”

 

“And _you’re_ _not_?” Baze blinked over at Chirrut. The other man was serene and grave and empathetic. For some reason, that just made Baze see red even more. “He’s—Galen Erso took and probably _has been_ taking advantage of our kid! And you’re not upset, _too_?”

 

Chirrut’s smile was small and wry. “Oh, I’m fucking _furious_ that they’ve been hiding this from us for so long, yeah.”

 

“ _So long_?” Baze blinked again. “You . . . how do you know how long it’s been?”

 

With another sigh, Chirrut squeezed Baze’s knee again. “Lately, Bodhi’s been . . . mooning over this wonderful, amazing, perfect guy he’s been seeing since . . . November—”

 

“Eight months ago?! They’ve been fucking around for _eight months_?!”

 

“Yup. And I—I kept teasing him about bringing this fantastic miracle-guy home to meet us but he’s . . . been secretive and touchy. Putting me off about his top-secret boyfriend for over a month, now. Wouldn’t tell me why, just kept saying that the time wasn’t right, and that he didn’t want you and I to be upset or judgmental because this guy was . . . a bit older than him.”

 

“A _bit_?” Baze barked a cynical laugh. “Galen’s almost our age!”

 

“Two years younger than me,” Chirrut agreed with a limp smile.

 

“And _twenty-five years older_ than our son!”

 

Silence was the only reply Baze received for several minutes. Then Chirrut’s hand left his knee, and took Baze’s right hand after prying it from its strangle-hold on the wheel.

 

“You could’ve mentioned that our son was seeing someone seriously, y'know.” Baze darted a pointless glare at Chirrut.

 

“Not my news to tell, butch. Besides, I know how you get about guys sniffing around your little boy. Bodhi seemed to be invested in this mystery-guy in a way he’d never been with any of his other boyfriends. And it seemed . . . best to let him resolve it all in his own time.” Chirrut squeezed Baze’s hand. “Anyway, I didn’t wanna jinx it by jumping the gun.”

 

Baze’s face screwed itself into a dangerous glower. “And _I_ wish you _had_! That . . . fucking slime-bag _opportunist_!”

 

“Baze. . . .” Chirrut’s tone was kind but chastising, too. “Our son’s _always_ known his own mind, sweetheart. He’s always known what he wanted from life. Always _gone after_ what he wanted, no-holds-barred, whether it was getting his pilot’s license or getting the cute guys that caught his eye.” Chirrut raised Baze’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles, lingering lightly. “Bodhi’s compass always points to his True North, just like yours. And Galen Erso . . . is a good man.”

 

Baze shook his head disbelievingly. “He’s taking advantage—”

 

“No, Baze. He’s not. He’s . . . really not. And you _know_ that. Or you _would_ , if you could see past your valid, but ultimately useless anger, and accept that Bodhi’s a grown man. And sometimes, grown men have sex—poorly-timed, admittedly—with other grown men they love.”

 

With a growl, Baze turned his gaze back to the steering wheel and his white-knuckled left hand.

 

“But for all that he’s grown, he’s still . . . young, and probably scared of what may be the first real disapproval we’ve ever expressed over his choices. And _Galen’s_ . . . probably expecting you to kill him. With your bare hands. After ripping his dick off and shoving it down his throat,” Chirrut added with a bit of worried dismay, and Baze nodded fervently. His husband always had the _best_ ideas. “But he’s clearly willing to risk death-by-angry-and-weaponized-dad, to be with Bodhi.”

 

“You _don’t_ know that!” Baze exploded, because Chirrut _didn’t_ know. He was just assuming that _everyone’s_ heart was as pure and faithful—as fearlessly _true_ as Bodhi’s. And his own.

 

“I know that our son and his rightfully nervous lover came by to see us, _together_ , on a nice Saturday when they thought we’d be home, and relaxed and calm . . . after eight months of sneaking-around and angst.”

 

It took Baze nearly a minute, but he got there. With a groan and grudging acceptance, he got there. “You think . . . you think they were coming here to come clean to us.”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

Baze laughed ruefully. “Well, they could’ve _called_ first! Or emailed! Or texted! _Anything_ , so we didn’t walk in on— _ugh_!”

 

“I _was_ very glad I was blind, for a minute, there,” Chirrut muttered, then forced a small chuckle. “But you know as well as I do, that when you’re newly in love, any halfway secluded spot that’s likely to remain so for even ten minutes, becomes a suite in the Ritz-Carlton.”

 

“ _Ugh_ ,” was once more Baze’s reply as he glared out the windshield. The intense red of his vision was now more of a tame sort of salmon.

 

“Baby. . . .”

 

“He’s forty-nine years old! His _daughter_ is three months _older_ than our son! He should _know better_!” Baze insisted.

 

“Better than . . . what? Better than to fall in love with someone who’s smart and funny and sweet? And beautiful, inside and out?”

 

“Not to mention only twenty-four!”

 

“Do you really think Bodhi’s age, or lack thereof, had _any_ impact on what Galen feels for him?”

 

“I . . . we don’t _know_ what Galen feels for him! If anything!”

 

“A fair point. And we _won’t know_ , until we talk with them,” Chirrut reasoned gently. “But if this _is_ the big L-word for him, like it is for Bodhi—and, Baze . . . it _is_ the big L-word for our son, whether you like it, or not—then the _worst_ thing we could do would be to stand in the way of it or make them feel bad for having the audacity to fall in love.”

 

Baze leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes tight. On the backs of them, he could see Bodhi—not Bodhi the adult, and especially not Bodhi as he’d been a few hours ago (thank goodness) but the skinny, serious, big-eyed toddler they’d brought home all those years ago, gazing around at everything, including his new parents, with curiosity and no fear.

 

No . . . Baze supposed that Galen _hadn’t_ taken advantage of Bodhi. Wouldn’t have needed to, once Bodhi had set his sights—whatever they’d been—on the quiet, reserved, widowed engineer. It was entirely likely that Bodhi, brave and shameless _Bodhi_ , so like Chirrut in his courage and pure-heartedness, had been the one to do the wooing, considering how incredibly gun-shy Galen Erso had become in the years since Lyra’s death.

 

Sighing, himself, Baze squinted up at the upholstered ceiling of the Tesla. “So, what’re you suggesting we do, Chirrut? Give him our son and our blessing, and pay for the wedding?”

 

Chirrut tsked. “I’m suggesting we shut off the car, go inside the house, and listen to what our son and Galen have to say.”

 

“And then?” Baze grunted. Chirrut kissed his knuckles again.

 

“Let’s just take it one step at a time, butch. And listening is usually a _good_ first step.”

 

#

 

The kitchen was dark, except for the night-light above the stove. Chirrut lead Baze inside without hesitation.

 

Bodhi was asleep at the kitchen table, head pillowed on his right arm, and snoring quietly. He was wearing his old, baggy-saggy purple jammie-bottoms and a gray hoodie, and his inky hair was pulled back in a messy man-bun, much like Baze’s.

 

Just beyond the reach of his long, lightly-curled left hand was the unopened box with the Funko doll.

 

He . . . looked so young and _vulnerable_. So precious and innocent. So like the adventurous, impetuous, big-eyed kid Baze would probably _always_ see when he looked at his son.

 

Bodhi made Baze’s heart expand and _ache_. Always had, but never as much as it did in this moment.

 

When Chirrut clucked and reached back past Baze to shut and lock the door to the garage, Bodhi snorted, started, and bolted awake and upright, blinking those big, dark eyes sleepily.

 

“Dad? Pops?” he mumbled around a big yawn, stretching and still blinking. Then he shook himself and swallowed before taking a deep breath. He held Baze’s grim stare for long moments, then smiled, crooked and nervous, and cleared his throat. “So, um . . . I’ve been seeing this guy I _really_ like. . . .”

 

“Jesus-goddamn- _Christ_ , Bodhi!” Baze exclaimed plaintively, with more exasperation, now, than anger . . . even as Chirrut leaned into him, once more offering silent, but tangible support. Bodhi’s scared gaze ticked between them miserably, then he sighed.

 

“I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,” he said, deflating and sinking in on himself like a sad, punctured Bodhi-balloon. “I’m sorry we waited so long to tell you—lied by omission. Sorry _I_ didn’t even try to . . . to _not_ love Galen so much it makes my _heart hurt_. But I do. I do and I _have_ since I was eight years old.”

 

Chirrut made a commiserative noise. “Bodhi, sweetpea. . . .”

 

“But that’s on me,” Bodhi declared, wiping at his cheeks impatiently and squaring his shoulders. He met Baze’s eyes with solemn determination. “Galen never wanted this—never wanted to hide or lie, never even meant to . . . I just kept after him until he gave in. For, like, a _long_ time. And then I _kept_ after him to keep on giving in and giving in, and letting _me_ in, and . . . Pops, we came here to tell you and Dad about us, and ask for your forgiveness. But that’s . . . that’s not all we came here for.” Biting his lower lip, Bodhi blinked and more tears ran out of his wide, hopeful eyes. “The plan was, Galen and I were gonna take you guys out for a nice dinner and . . . he was gonna ask you for your permission to . . . propose. Marriage. To me.”

 

Chirrut’s gasp was soft and surprised, and Baze . . . Baze could only gape and stare at his formerly love-‘em-and-leave-‘em son. Stare as that son sniffled and wept and hugged himself, like he hadn’t since that time he’d thought Chirrut and Baze were going to make him give up the sick baby tortoise he’d found when he was nine.

 

They hadn’t, of course. Neither of Bodhi’s parents could say no to those eyes or the heart that shone out of them.

 

And Bodhi, loyal to the end, _still_ had that tortoise, which he’d inexplicably named _Jingles_.

 

“Flying and Galen Erso are the only things I’ve _ever_ wanted this much. _So fucking much_. But _Galen’s_ the one thing I don’t think I can live without, so,” Bodhi took a deep, shaking breath, now, and gave another sniffle. Some more tears fell, and his face crumpled and his shoulders sagged. “So, you’d _better_ give him permission to propose, because I’m gonna say _yes_ , and _keep saying it_ till he marries me . . . whether you like it, or not!”

 

Then, that shaky statement delivered, Bodhi covered his face with his hands and silently sobbed. And shook.

 

With a choked-off sound of distress, Chirrut immediately went to their son, put his arms around Bodhi, and held him tight, murmuring loving, comforting nonsense.

 

And Baze simply stood there, staring at the two people he loved more than life itself, shaking his head and glowering, until Chirrut fixed him with a sharp, unseeing glare.

 

Heaving a final, defeated sigh, Baze shuffled over to his family and put his arms around them. Held them as close as he dared then, at last, as close as he could. And when Chirrut huffed his mollification and leaned into Baze—and Bodhi began to sob harder with palpable relief, wrapping his long, rangy arms tightly around them both—Baze simply closed his eyes and concentrated on the love-quake that was shaking him heart and soul.

 

Immersing himself in that perfect, internal seismic activity was, as always, more than enough.

 

It was _everything_.

 

 

**Night: Good Night, Noises Everywhere. . . .**

 

Long after Bodhi was in bed—probably _still_ not asleep . . . _probably_ on his smartphone or Skyping with Galen—in his old room, Baze Malbus lay in his own bed, heavy eyes shut, his husband drowsing in his arms.

 

“Well,” said husband sighed softly, contentedly, his even breath gusting lightly across Baze’s chest. Chirrut’s face was warm and familiar, and pressed just over Baze’s heart. Most of their afterglows were exactly _this_ , plus some sexy snuggling and cuddly canoodling. But there was a strangely solemn sense of peace and wellbeing about this one. Baze wasn’t exactly thrilled with the events of the day—from blender to Bodhi’s boyfriend . . . _fiancé-apparent_ —but he supposed that it could’ve always been worse.

 

“I know, right? At least he’s not pregnant.”

 

Baze groaned, lazy and without animus, but didn’t open his eyes. “I hate it when you read my mind, Chirrut.”

 

“Ah, you love it, butch.”

 

“Meeeh.”

 

Chirrut chuckled smugly, sweeping his hand up and down Baze’s abs with appreciation and possessiveness. Baze hummed . . . and had nearly drifted off completely when Chirrut snorted.

 

“Maybe we should get _two_ of the blender? I mean . . . we’re looking at two upcoming weddings, after all.”

 

“ _Ugh_ ,” Baze grumbled grouchily around a yawn. Chirrut snuggled closer and marched his fingers up over Baze’s stomach and ribs.

 

“I mean, Bodhi and Cassian can’t cook for shit, but Galen and Jyn can. They’ll appreciate such a wonderful and versatile appliance. C’mon, skinflint, I’ll bet it makes the _best_ margaritas!”

 

“Ehhhh.”

 

“And it’d probably be good for making those gross protein-wheat grass shakes you love. The ones you could make at home—if we had such a blender of our own—instead of going all the way to _HealthShines_ or to _The Mighty Juice!_ all the time.”

 

“Hmm. . . .” Baze wasn’t _really_ considering getting them a damn blender. He was just placating his husband so he’d shut up and stop wrecking the afterglow, and they could _both_ get some sleep. Tomorrow at noon, they had a _brunch_ -date with Bodhi and Galen to look forward to. Baze even already knew which semi-automatic pistol he’d be taking with him to make several pointed, but necessary ultimatums to Galen.

 

Though . . . it might not be _so_ bad having the blender just in case. It wasn’t as if it was a mandatory law that he _had_ to use it. And if it meant Chirrut would stop making the puppy-eyes—at least about _that_ —then it was certainly worth considering. . . .

 

Chirrut’s smile on his chest was slow and a bit smug. “Okay! _Three_ blenders, it is! And margaritas and protein shakes for everyone! All without leaving the comfort of home!”

 

“Mmm. . . .” Baze brushed slow, sleepy fingers up and down Chirrut’s shoulder and bicep. The gentle caresses hastened him, if not Chirrut, off to dreamland by the express route. And his lullaby was the sweet, soft susurrus of their synced breathing. At least until Chirrut took a slightly deeper breath and shivered delicately.

 

“I _love_ you, Baze Malbus. You know that, right? You and Bodhi, both. More than I ever thought I could love _anyone_ ,” Chirrut said suddenly, his voice thick and reluctant, but more than a bit rushed. “I always had everything I ever _wanted_ , but nothing I really _needed_. Never had . . . just . . . _never_. Until you. I never thought giving up _everything_ to escape my family’s clutches would lead to a far _better_ family. A _real_ family that’d be the _only_ everything I’d ever need or want. And there’s never a single moment in my day when I’m _not_ grateful, and madly, irrevocably _in love with you,_ and the family and life you’ve given me.”

 

“Hmm. . . ?” Baze struggled out from under ten tons of dozing and the unconsciousness that was moving at speed and clearly had a schedule to keep. He forced himself to focus on Chirrut’s words—there were always _lots_ of those, but _these_ words sounded and felt . . . different. Deeper, darker, and _important_ —even as his sluggish stroking of his husband’s arm settled into a loose clasp. “Fam’ly? Not ‘n orphan, like me. . . ?”

 

Chirrut’s chuckle was sad and wry, this time, and a warm, wet drop _maybe_ landed on Baze’s chest. Though, three-quarters asleep as he was, Baze couldn’t be too certain. Then Chirrut shifted a bit and there were no more drops. “Ah, sure, I am, butch. The _orphaniest_ orphan. Didn’t have nothin’ or no one, till I had _you_. And then Bodhi. You two were the _beginning_ of me. Whatever— _whoever_ came before is just an unhappy, unloved memory. He’s _gone_ and _I’m_ here. I’m _real_ because you and Bodhi _love me_ , and because I love _you_. The first people I ever loved and the ones I’ll _always_ love most.”

 

Though most of what Chirrut said went over Baze’s weary, drifting head— _never_ to be remembered, for good or ill—that last bit, the _love_ -bit, was something he’d _never_ failed to get. To _hold on to_ , and cherish. And he never would. No matter how exhausted he was, and how far gone he was into dreamland, Chirrut’s love would always make him _glow_. Shine and glow, like the moon in the sky, and all the stars, besides. “Hmm . . . sappy, smart-ass Trouble-maker. Best thing that _ever_ happened t’me . . . love you, f’rever. . . .”

 

This time, the chuckle was wondering and content, Chirrut’s cuddling and snuggling more of a heavy and final shift into his preferred sleeping position. And even when he’d settled into weighty stillness, he burned bright and warm, like a beloved, benevolent flame, at Baze’s side and in his arms. “Of course, I am. And of course, you do, butch. Sweet dreams, okay?”

 

“Hmm . . . okay. Ditto. Night, Chirrut.”

 

A tender, yawning kiss was pressed to the spot directly over Baze’s heart, followed by another warm, wet drop, or three. “Mm, g’night, Baze . . . g’night, love.”

 

And it was.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Hotot’s prompt: _Chirrut and Baze AU_  
>  married old queens  
> bicker and love each other
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to Hotot for the prompt and Ghostofshe for the enthusiastic cheering ::smooches::
> 
> [I’ll Tumblr for ya](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com). . . !


End file.
